When I open my eyes,
I adjust my body as if you were still there,
reaching across the mattress to lay my arm gently over my pillow and pull it between my legs.
My body aches to be intertwined with yours.
Especially in the morning sunlight.

I see you on my way to work.
Laughing, or arguing, but most likely in groggy silence,
in the December air, while driving to Cambridge.
With the window down, I can still smell your cigarette smoke.

In the evenings, I see you at my front door.
Rosy cheeks and shivering, a meek smile, your shiny gold back pack.
A light kiss and lingering hug.
I want it to linger longer.

At the kitchen sink, soapy water bubbles over brims of bowls
As I feel your skinny fingers reach for me and fumble around my waist
You rest your warm cheek against my neck
I am holding you up.
And I shiver with the pressure.

I climb the stairs to my bedroom, your ghost does not follow.
The air is heavy, it weighs down hard on my chest.
Frantically, I push the tears back from eyes.
You hate it when I cry.

In bed, thoughts of you with your head between her legs seduce me like the devil clawing his way through my brain.
All consuming pain rushes through me.
Creeping from my chest, to the pit of my stomach, to the tips of my toes.

“Sleep,” you say.
“Goodnight,” I whisper to myself in the dark, hoping you hear me.